June, 1969
Les Kinning does not say
much and if anything really does bother him, he never shows it.
Perhaps that is why I find him so
interesting.
Life, to me on the other hand, seems chaotic, confusing and
unpredictable. Life makes me afraid.
Since I am smaller than my
classmates at North Arlington High School and still speak with a squeaky
soprano voice at age sixteen, I have few friends and prefer to hang around with
older people who will not make fun of me. My parents have recently returned to
church after a long absence: a Baptist church, in the neighboring town of Rutherford. The
church is attended by mostly elderly people and there are no other kids my age.
I think that my parents feel needed there and the old people are kind to me, so
I feel safe.
The old stone building,
however, is far too large for the congregation’s needs and in constant need of
repair. Les Kinning has volunteered to do much of the routine maintenance and I
like to help him. So, I am often found following him around the building while
he dusts the dark, lacquered pews or stands on an extra-high ladder replacing light bulbs.
Perhaps, since he has two adult daughters, Mr. Kinning enjoys having a boy
around for a change or perhaps he just misses having younger children.
I am, admittedly, not a happy child. Typically, I
am upset about something or other: the loss of a pet, or a bully at school or
just feeling lonely. My father tries, but does not understand me; “I don’t know
what to tell ya…” he says, in almost every situation. I feel like I have no one
to talk to, except my crazy uncle Ed and now, perhaps, Les Kinning. He may not know what to say either
but always gives me a reassuring hug or makes an odd, but comforting, grunt,
which I assume is something that all British people must do.
This particular afternoon,
there has been yet another traumatic event:
my parents have just announced that we are moving away from the house
where I have always lived and into a small “garden” apartment about half a mile away, on Ridge Road. I am distraught
at the prospect of leaving my familiar surroundings while they seem delighted
at the prospect of having their own home and away from the dominating influence
of Nana, my father’s mother.
It is Sunday after church,
but I have not heard a word of Pastor Greenleaf’s sermon. I am sitting
outside on the concrete steps, crying. After a while, Mr. Kinning sits down next to me. He doesn't say anything for a few minutes and I think he must be angry with me. He
already seems to know about the impending move. Finally, he puts his hand
around my shoulder and speaks. “Sometimes, we just do not have control over
things that happen to us. It’s not luck or fate…they are things without
heart…no, it’s something people used to call providence.”
“A
long time ago, my father was a young man in England. His first job was working
for a ship company and his first assignment was on a brand new ocean liner.
Now, he lived a good ways from the port and had to take a train there. As providence
would have it, the train broke down and stood still on a siding for hours. As a
result, my father was late arriving at his destination. He liked to tell me the
sad, sad story of standing on the dock, watching the great ship already out in
the bay and slowly disappearing in the distance.
"Bad Luck," I comment, wiping a tear off my cheek.
"Oh no," Mr. Kinning continues, "That ocean liner was the Titanic
and two days later it would sink in the North Atlantic. My father lost his
job, but his life was spared, all due to a broken down train...and here I am alive today!"
I stopped crying...and from that day on...I have never used the term Bad Luck again.
